


The Evening Star

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Category: Stardust (2007), Stardust - All Media Types, Stardust - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Bc you know, Other, and sets all of this into motion, anyway, because yvaine isn't a woman, he dies, hence the 'other' tag, ok so i didn't dump this into the m/f category, stars have no concept of gender, the king of stormhold makes a brief appearance, tristran is a dick, una deserves the world tbh, una is a gem, well at the start, why did they all have to kill each other, why tf couldn't he just pick one of his kids to be king, yvaine is a star, yvaine is confused and super not used to this whole not glowing thing, yvaine runs from trap into trap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 16:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15777579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: This is how the world collapses under Yvaine’s feet: the death of a king, a clear ruby against their aching bones and a boy with eyes the colour of soil on top of them.All of Stormhold holds its breath as its king chokes on his laughter, watching his son fall to his death, his three living children gathered around him, murder etched into their clothes. The royal ruby hits Yvaine like the sharp pain of being born, hot and sudden and burning against their leg and by the time the pain dulls, they lie on the floor, no longer aglow. The boy atop of them calls them mother, his dark eyes on their dress.or:Yvaine tumbles and falls and has an adventure.





	The Evening Star

 

 

> _Worry not about the chains, my love, worry not about your heart._  
>  _Worry about the witch, my love, as her cackle falls apart._  
>  _Worry not about your hands, my dear, worry not about the stains._  
>  _Worry about the lips, my dear, on your skin and your remains._  
>  _Worry not about a thing, my pet, worry not at all._  
>  _Worry just about the star, my pet, and watch it fall._  
>  Nursery Rhyme, Stormhold, ca 1830
> 
>  

This is how the world collapses under Yvaine’s feet: the death of a king, a clear ruby against their aching bones and a boy with eyes the colour of soil on top of them.

All of Stormhold holds its breath as its king chokes on his laughter, watching his son fall to his death, his three living children gathered around him, murder etched into their clothes. The royal ruby hits Yvaine like the sharp pain of being born, hot and sudden and burning against their leg and by the time the pain dulls, they lie on the floor, no longer aglow. The boy atop of them calls them _mother_ , his dark eyes on their dress.

“I’m not your mother”, Yvaine says and twists away. “Get off me.” The boy falters and gapes.

_Mother_ , Yvaine thinks as the boy turns away, worrying his hands. They smooth out the fabric of their dress, silver and flowing underneath their dull fingers. _Like a human woman._

The boy chains them, the pull of it uncomfortable against their wrist. “You will be a gift to Victoria, my one true love”, he says and Yvaine thinks of their siblings, and of the burning in their bones. They scowl at him. The boy tugs the chain.

 

 

Some 400 years before Yvaine tumbled to the ground, their hands pressed to their leg, one of their siblings fell. A red giant, their hair had the colour of fire once they touched Stormhold’s soil, the witches’ hands around their waist, on their skin, in their hair. _Darling_ , the witches had called them, and chained the cackles from behind their lips. _Sweetheart, you need a bath._ They had taken Yvaine’s sibling and their hair, the glow in their heart and had nursed them, dressed them in gowns and skirts and blouses and things a witch can never touch. _Darling girl_ , they said, and shackled them to the table, once they glowed again, their heart a pool of warmth against their lips.

 

 

Yvaine’s hair is a cascade of yellow against their cheeks as they try putting weight on their ankle and stumble. They cough. “Please”, they say, their breath sharp and ragged, “let me sleep.”

The boy with the soil coloured eyes (Tristan is his name, he’d offered it with a shrug and a smile) furrows his brows and chains them to the tree. Yvaine sighs and lifts their chin. The bark is rough against their back, the ruby heavy on their clavicles. Their body is a constant weight against their bones, their skin tight and dull and unglowing.

 

 

The woman, with her hands on Yvaine’s back, smells like the warm pulse of a star’s trust, and Yvaine smiles at her. _Dear_ , the woman calls them and smiles, her daughter silent at her side, as she fills the bath. The water is steaming and as Yvaine sinks into it, their right foot hovering over the ground, they feel as if their siblings were braiding their hair again, their voices against Yvaine’s skin.

The warm smell on the woman’s skin is still in Yvaine’s nose as they cling to Tristan, green fire around them, and the woman angles her knife towards them, her voice that of a witch once more. Tristan holds them close to himself, his voice quiet and breaking into their hair.

“Yvaine, hold me close and think of home.”

 

 

_Pretty girl_ , the pirates call Yvaine. _Pretty thing._ The captain offers Tristan trousers and Yvaine a dress. They smile and thank him and think of their siblings, glowing and laughing and pooling into their arms during the daytime. The captain tilts his head and hands Tristan a shirt, white and flowing against his skin.

Captain Shakespeare takes Yvaine with him as he tattles for his lightening bolts and the man he negotiates with scowls at Yvaine. “Nosy thing, isn’t she?”, he says and Yvaine feels like they did when they were new, boiling and bright. Shakespeare smiles at them and Yvaine takes a step back and doesn’t bow their head.

 

 

Waltzing with Tristan, one of his hands on their back, the other holding their hand, feels a little like floating again, like sprawling themselves on clouds. Tristan smiles and Yvaine can feel the glow in their heart. (“I know what you are”, Shakespeare says, and “I’m not going to hurt you.” Yvaine steps on his feet, their mouth slack and Shakespeare smiles at them.) Tristan’s hands are light where Shakespeare’s are warm and solid, and Yvaine feels warmer as Tristan lets them lead.

 

 

Tristan’s mouth is warm and smooth against their skin and Yvaine wraps their legs around his waist. “Yvaine”, he says, his hands in their hair, on their skin. “Yvaine.” They pull him closer and Tristan laughs. The warmth in Yvaine’s skin spills and boils over, Tristan’s hair against their chest, his mouth against their skin and they laugh, breathless. Tristan smiles, his eyes still the colour of soil, his lips no longer those of a quivering boy.

 

 

When Yvaine was born from star dust and pressure against their core, the earth was still molten and as glowing as their siblings. Their siblings had taken their hands and smiled at them, and Yvaine had watched the earth first cool, then turn green. And as life, as humanity came to be, they watched them, their heart caught in their throat, watched humans spin and turn and laugh and live and have adventures, of fire breathing dragons, cackling witches and bleeding feet. “I wish I could have an adventure”, they’d said, their hands around their siblings and their sibling had laughed.

 

 

The chain digs into Yvaine’s skin as the dark haired woman holds them close, her voice the soft tilt of a nursery rhyme as Yvaine buries their face in her chest. ( _If you touch human soil, you’ll turn to rock_ , she had said and Yvaine thinks of taking this step, of Tristan’s eyes and his true love.) Their tears stain the woman’s dress and the skin on their cheeks and the lilt of her voice doesn’t change.

_Worry not about the chains, my love, worry not about your heart._

 

 

Tristan touches the ruby and turns it as red as the heat in Yvaine’s bones. The witches, their mouths warped into teethful of smiles, lie still and unmoving at their feet and the animals claw against their bars. “The last male heir to the Stormhold bloodline”, the dark haired woman says, and Yvaine looks at the boy with the soil coloured eyes and thinks of the king and his rattling laugh. Tristan’s mouth is a soft line, his hands the dull hue of human skin and he laughs, breathless, his head thrown back.

His mother smiles at him, and at Yvaine too, her eyes crinkling. Yvaine thinks of the sky, of their siblings and of their dress, burning to molten rock. They take Tristan’s hand and rub the soft skin there.

“Now look what the weird bloody necklace did”, Tristan says and Yvaine laughs.

 

 

(Tristan is crowned King of Stormhold, his hand in Yvaine’s and they smile at him, their dress warm around them as they are crowned Monarch, a Babylon candle at their feet.)


End file.
